Missing

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1962

Patty stood at the post near the end of the dirt driveway, red dust billowing around her ankles as a pickup truck sped by.  She was waiting for her father.  Her mother, her aunts, her uncles and cousins were all gathered inside, wailing, having already decided her father was lost forever, a casualty of the dark, murderous Mississippi night.  She knew the stories, every child had overheard their parents whispering them – cowards hidden under sheets, lynchings, bombings, crosses burning.  But, her father was brave; she knew he’d come back.

She’d never stop waiting.

 

Six Sentence Story Challenge  prompt this week is post.

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Silenced

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“Hi Barry, what’s new?”  Kate answered the phone with an optimistic lilt in her voice.

“Hey!  Katie!  How’s my favorite client?”

Kate rolled her eyes.  “What do you have for me, Barry?”  She persisted.

“Well, there’s a role I think you’d be perfect for.  It’s a drama about a woman who takes revenge on an evil, secretive corporation…”

“Sounds intriguing.  Who else is interested?’

“Well…errr…Katie, let’s be clear, Jennifer Lawrence is already a lock for the lead.  They want you for the role of her best friend…”

“I see.  And let me guess, I say a lot of things like ‘you go girl,’ and ‘ain’t nobody got time for that?’  Plus I’m wacky and over-the-top and have absolutely no life or personality of my own?”

“Errr…”

“I’m not interested, Barry…”

“Okay, okay, well, there is a lead role you may be interested in.  It’s a film set on a plantation in the deep south, early 19th century…”

“Gotta go, Barry.”

She typed a quick text to her partner.  Go time.

The women were waiting for her. They formed a straight line, with her at the lead.  Big Movie Studio’s imposing buildings loomed ahead of them.  It was time to send a message.  They weren’t interested in playing maids, or sassy best friends, or slaves any longer.  It was time for change, and they were sick to death of waiting.

For Sunday Photo Fiction 

P.S. – I love Jennifer Lawrence!  She’s my spirit animal!  Just making a point about diversity in Hollywood.

Tourists

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Photo – ceayr

Dad was taking me on a tour of Savannah, his hometown, stopping in front of a grand French-style home.   Grand Historic Home – Tours Daily read the sign.   A group of tourists milled about.

“Our family lived here for generations,” Dad said.

“Lived here?  They were rich?” I asked.

“No, honey.  They worked here.  They were slaves, then, after the war, they were servants.”

I remembered the stories I’d learned in school.  People in chains, treated as less than human, subjected to all manner of inhumane treatment.  I stare at the tourists snapping photos and laughing, confusion twisting my face.

For Friday Fictioneers